


Seeking the Sun

by kyrilu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Family, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: “He might be like that wizard in that story Mum used to tell us. The warlock with the hairy heart.”“He won’t cut out my heart,” Albus said.After his mother’s death, Albus Dumbledore is engaged to Gellert Grindelwald, heir to a prominent Seer family.





	Seeking the Sun

Perhaps it should have been more dramatic. It could have happened when Albus was in class, asking pointed questions about Transfiguration, or while he was in the dungeon cooking up experimental potions. It could have happened when Aberforth was flying in a Quidditch match, or while he was in the midst of a duel—because that was Aberforth, all right, always caught up in a scuffle.

No, they were notified in the morning. Headmistress Mole summoned them to her office with a piece of parchment in hand. The two brothers waited, tired and apprehensive.

Last night, there was an incident involving Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore.

Death was like that. It came quietly, while they were sleeping.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Mole said, leveling a solemn gaze at both of them. “It is truly a tragedy, both of you left without your parents.”

At the reminder of his father, Albus stifled a flinch. He had done his utmost to cast himself in a different light from his supposed Muggle-hating bigot of a father. Percival Dumbledore had been buried outside the walls of Azkaban, and now, he could not be buried with his wife.

“The funeral,” Mole went on, “will be this weekend. I believe Mrs. Bagshot made the arrangements. She currently has your sister in her care.” 

“Ariana,” Aberforth said in a murmur. Then he turned to Albus. Blazing red curls, truculent blue eyes, his skin a shade darker, Aberforth looked like Albus but also didn’t. “You should have let me stay. If you had let me stay, this wouldn’t have happened!”

Albus looked at his brother, his face pale. Quietly, he said, “Not now, Aberforth. Please.”

“Oh, not in front of the headmistress, is that right? You don’t want your precious reputation getting endangered if anyone knew what our sister is.” Aberforth swept a hand out toward the portraits, some who were pretending not to listen but clearly were. “She’s getting older and you knew it was getting more powerful. I know how to talk to her, how to calm her down, and it was getting too much for Mother.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Albus said. He said it with such force that the glass stills and vials on Mole’s desk trembled. “Stop.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He wanted to scream at his brother that he was wrong, that this was nobody’s fault. They had a sister who could explode into a destructive force like a storm, her eyes white, her body made of shadows.

He had done research about her kind: Obscurials. He had read books and folklore, poring through the historical and narrative record.

These were children who repressed their magic so much that it warped into itself. These were children who died early and weeping black. There was, as far as Albus could tell, no cure.

Of course Albus tried. He wrote letters and studied in his own way. He dared not perform any magic on his sister for fear of making it worse, and he hadn’t made any semblance of progress.

He told himself: Ariana was fourteen. She was fourteen and past the maximum age of an Obscurial. She had survived until now, and she will keep on surviving, and nothing will change.

“Mr. Aberforth,” Mole said, gentle, but evidently confused by Aberforth’s accusations, “you mustn’t be upset with your brother. The Aurors said it was an accident.”

“Sod the Aurors,” Aberforth said. He cast a last, angry glance at Albus, and stormed off, and Albus almost missed it, but he saw it, the tears brimming from his brother’s eyes.

That left Albus sitting alone with Headmistress Mole in her office. He wanted to cry, too, but instead he felt an unbearable numbness. It reminded him of the time he was eleven years old, visiting his father in Azkaban for the first time, the Dementors making him cold with fear.

He had thought: Never again. He had thought: I will not become this.

So, Albus steadied himself. He was Albus Dumbledore, head boy, star pupil, future politician, and heir of his family. He said somberly, “I apologize for my brother’s behavior, Headmistress. The news is a shock to both of us. Thank you for telling us what happened.”

Mole inclined her head. Then she said, “There is one other thing. A letter from your family’s solicitor.”

Albus stilled. Were the Aurors treating this as more than an accident? If they knew what Ariana was, they would stick her into St. Mungo’s or Azkaban. There had to have been an investigation.

And he found himself feeling—relieved. It was a terrible feeling. But he knew that guardianship would be passed over to him, and he had plans for the summer, for the future. Perhaps somebody else could take Ariana in and care for her, someone who knew what they were doing. Even if it meant subjecting her to become an eternal experiment, the last known living Obscurial.

He tried not to imagine what Aberforth would say.

But when he opened the letter, he found that it didn’t fulfill his horrible desire at all.

_Dear Albus,_

_I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Turnus Thorne. I was an old friend of your father’s and I provided legal and financial counsel to your mother. I am sorry for what happened; Kendra was an enduring spirit, and three children without their parents is truly a tragedy._

_You are the heir of the Dumbledore estate. You are now the guardian of Ariana and Aberforth Dumbledore._

_To be frank – I am saying this an old family friend, not as your solicitor – the Dumbledore estate is not what it used to be._

_I am aware of what your sister is, and I (along with Mrs. Bagshot, who is friendly with the local superintendent Auror) managed to persuade the Aurors to stay silent. Your mother wanted Ariana’s state kept private and for her to remain with family. I wanted to honor her wishes._

_There is another matter to contend with, one that will perhaps make your circumstances easier. In the event of her untimely death, Kendra Dumbledore arranged your betrothal to Mrs. Bagshot’s grandnephew, a lad named Gellert Grindelwald._

Albus nearly dropped the letter. He stared at the black ink and willed it to rearrange itself like a shifting portrait or photograph. The words stayed the same. 

The letter continued:

_Gellert Grindelwald comes from a prominent Seer family. After approaching Mrs. Bagshot, Kendra believed you could restore the Dumbledore name through this matrimony. Lord Dominik Grindelwald, Gellert’s father, heard of your magical aptitude and achievements, and he agreed that it would be a suitable match._

Albus couldn’t bring himself to continue reading. He crumpled the parchment in his hand and made excuses to Headmistress Mole, darting out of her office as fast as he could.

* * *

 

Elphias found him in the astronomy tower, sitting by a window and crouched into himself, arms crossed over his knees. Albus had his wand tucked behind his ear and his long auburn hair rustled carelessly in the wind, not tucked into its usual neat ponytail.

“Your mother,” Elphias started, offering well-worn condolences that Albus was already sick of hearing.

Albus held up a hand. “That’s enough.”

Elphias, obedient as always, shut up.

Albus had an unopened chocolate bar in his hands, and he turned it around and around, the foil crinkling. “Elphie, I’ve been saving this chocolate,” he said, his tone seemingly light. “My mother sent it to me a week ago I don’t know what kind it is. Dark chocolate or white chocolate or milk chocolate. Whether it has caramel or nuts. Whether it’s the Muggle sort or from Honeydukes.”

Albus knew he was being absurd, foolish. But wandless, wordless, the chocolate bar between his palms, he set it on fire, making the sweet devour itself in a flash of flame that quickly ate itself up and disappeared. He didn’t get burned.

“I am betrothed to a stranger,” Albus said. “She married me off to a sixteen-year-old kid, and she’s dead.”

And, quickly as the rage had washed over him, it evaporated. Albus handed the solicitor’s letter to Elphias. His friend perused it with his mousey eyes.

“Surely they can’t do this,” Elphias said. “You’re seventeen, of age, almost turning eighteen. Can’t you say no?”

“My mother signed a specific binding magical contract,” Albus said distantly. “I looked in the library. It’s old magic. It’s akin to an Unbreakable Vow. It is a very outdated version of matrimony, but as a foreign Seer family, it seems like the Grindelwalds have a tradition to keep to.”

Elphias’ face fell. He said, “I’ve heard of purebloods who still match by contract, of course, but it’s different. The contracts these days are s’posed to be _safer_ , and you can break the marriage under certain clauses. That’s what happened with my aunt and uncle.”

“Ministry of Magic law dictates the presence of divorce clauses with no fatal consequences,” Albus recited, remembering the law book he had flipped through. “But this contract is not under British law. I am the husband of the proverbial mysterious chocolate bar. Caramel…or nuts…”

Elphias laughed. “You like both, don’t you, Albus?”

Albus cracked a smile. “I do,” he admitted. “Although I prefer caramel over nuts. But I don’t know what will become of me, Elphie. I don’t think I can travel with you anymore. I have my siblings and my—husband—to think of.”

Albus stood up. He was standing on the edge of the astronomy tower window. The wind whistled by, a dry summer wind, and it made his hair stream behind him like a shuddering banner.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said, his voice nearly lost in the wind. “The Grindelwalds are wealthy and I’ll be able to provide for Aberforth and Ariana. Perhaps I’ll be able to give Ariana the care she needs. Or perhaps they’ll let me continue my research and correspondences, and being a Grindelwald will allow me more political connections. And you know me, Elphie, I can be clever—perhaps I can break the contract.”

It was an abundance of _perhaps, perhaps, perhaps._

“Perhaps you will,” Elphias agreed. He held a hand up to Albus, firm and steady. “Come down, Albus. You don’t have a broom and it makes me nervous.”

The boy on top of the astronomy tower only gave his friend a thin smile, and then he accepted his hand.

* * *

 

Ariana wore a black veil for the funeral.

Albus didn’t recognize her at first. She was wearing all black, opposed to the cheerful blues she was fond of, and her face was shrouded. He could only recognize her by the burst of gold that was her hair, and the fact that she was petting her favorite goat Chrysanthemum.

She first ran to Aberforth. She flung herself into his arms, saying, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ while Aberforth stroked her hair and told her it wasn’t her fault.

Albus retrieved some marshmallows out of his pocket and offered them to Chrysanthemum. The goat ate out of his hand, and Aberforth emerged from his hug with Ariana to scowl at Albus.

“Stop feeding her that rubbish,” Aberforth grumbled. He was still angry at Albus – it always seemed like Aberforth was angry – but with Ariana here, he had chosen to mostly behave himself.

“She’s suffered from a lack of marshmallows in my absence,” Albus said. He gave Ariana a conspiratorial smile, and his sister rolled her eyes.

Albus said, more seriously, “I hope you’ve been holding up well, Ariana. Nobody – _nobody_ – blames you. I miss her, too, and we shall do our best to move on and honor our mother’s memory. Did you hear that I’m engaged?”

“Yes,” Ariana said. “Mrs. Bagshot keeps going on about him. He’s _brilliant_ and _handsome_ and a _powerful_ Seer. He sounds rather dull. The perfect match for you. I’m glad Mum didn’t engage me to him.”

Her last joke fell flat, but Albus smiled anyway, happy that she seemed stable for the moment.

“Brilliant, handsome, powerful,” Aberforth repeated. “We’ll have Two Albuses. However will we tell them apart?”

“The one who always carries candy in his pocket is my brother,” Ariana said, reaching into Albus’ robe pockets and nabbing a piece of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum. Popping the gum into her mouth, she looked at them – though the veil, Albus could see the heaviness in her blue eyes – and she said, “I’m sorry. Thank you for not hating me. I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“Of course we came,” Aberforth said, and Albus felt his heart twist at Aberforth’s unhesitant use of _we_. “We could hardly leave you with Batty Bagshot forever.”

At that, Aberforth reached into Albus’ pocket and grabbed a sweet for himself, too.

* * *

 

It was a small, quiet service. Albus had written Mrs. Bagshot requesting her to invite a few family friends, a handful of wizards and witches who still kept in touch with Kendra even after Percival had been imprisoned.

A priest conducted the rites. He was a Muggleborn who served at St. Jerome’s, and he presided over ceremonies for both wizards and Muggles alike.

Kendra Dumbledore liked to say that she was a pureblood, but there was something of her Muggle roots that still stayed with her. There were Sundays where she attended Muggle mass with her children in tow.

(Albus and Aberforth had been baptized. Ariana was her father’s little girl, and by that point in time, Percival had been exasperated by his wife’s insistence at immersing them in Muggle religion. Ariana was not baptized, and sometimes Albus had heard Kendra muttering that maybe Ariana was what she was because of _that._ )

And so, Albus knew the motions. He knew how to do the sign of the cross and fold his hands in prayer. He did not know if he believed in his mother’s god – for he was a scholar and he believed in magic more than anything else – but he knew it was possible to believe in both.

He hoped that wherever his mother was, she would not be as tired and burdened as she had been when she was alive. He hoped that she would find his father, a murderer buried in unblessed and unmarked land.

He and Aberforth held Ariana’s hand, one at each side. They had told her that if it was too much for her, they would leave.

She was silent, hidden behind her black veil. It seemed like a trick of the light, but she flickered, for a moment, dark sparks jumping from her fingertips and her eyes sliding white. But it was only for a moment.

* * *

 

Turnus Thorne was at the funeral. He was a thin, tall man who wore spectacles and a bland smile. His black robes was cut in a way that suggested a man who kept up with the latest robe styles.

Thorne offered perfunctory condolences, told a quirky anecdote about their mother and father that Albus made himself forget immediately, and then he unfurled legal parchment for Albus to read and sign.

Foot after foot of that same black ink in elegant curving script. Albus wished that Thorne would have thrown in green or red ink for variety.

Attempting to hide his impatience, Albus said, “What are the official arrangements regarding Aberforth and Ariana? I believe your initial letter mentioned that I am required to live with my—husband—but I want to ensure that they will be provided for.”

“Of course,” Thorne said soothingly. “Aberforth will continue attending Hogwarts during the school year. There is an institution that I believe Ariana will thrive in, and Aberforth can stay with her during the summer—“

“An institution?” Albus interrupted sharply. “You wrote that my mother wanted my family to stay together. I refuse to let her get cast off to Azkaban or St. Mungo’s where people may hurt her, imprison her, or treat her as a mere curiosity.”

“Ah,” Thorne said. “The Grindelwald home, you see…is an unorthodox one. Lord Grindelwald informed me that outside family is not permitted. You are allowed to visit Aberforth and Ariana on a regular basis. But your primary home is with Lord Grindelwald and his son.

“As for this institution, with the assistance of Lord Grindelwald, we’ve located a place. There is a convent in Ireland – a magical one, not a Muggle one. St. Ailbe. Ariana can have a calm, structured life. She can choose to become a sister once she comes of age; she can still stay there if she decides not to.

“Nevertheless, the convent has agreed to take her in. They feel sympathy for her condition. They will certainly not tell the truth of her nature to the press. The Reverend Mother is a magical researcher and theorist herself, and if Ariana is willing, she will do her utmost to prevent her from deteriorating.”

Albus was temporarily struck speechless. He had heard of that witch before: Constance Moreau. Nicolas and Perenelle had often mentioned her in their letters to him, and he’d been impressed by her work in potions.

It was well-known that Moreau maintained a herbology garden and greenhouse that she took stock from for her research. A life of research mixed in with prayer or whatever else nuns were supposed to do.

He wondered how large Lord Grindelwald’s galleon donation was to St. Ailbe’s convent.

“That is very generous,” Albus said finally. “But, sir, you must understand that my sister can be dangerous. Especially around strangers.”

“You should see how she fares, at first,” Thorne said. He settled his spindly fingers on Albus’ shoulders. “Albus. I admired Kendra for her strength, but she never let that girl have any chance at freedom. She was protective, but restrictive; in part, that fear was _taught._ I have dropped in for tea, and Kendra always locked Ariana’s door and never once had her meet me.”

 _Don’t talk about my mother like that,_ Albus almost said out loud, his fists clenched.

But he didn’t. Thorne was right.

In his study of Obscurials, Albus had read how volatile the children were. They were not entirely volatile, apt to explode any moment. They could control it, to a degree. They were still _humans_ , full of magic and life.

Ariana had barely been given a life, shut up in their little house at Godric’s Hollow, no less of a prisoner than Percival Dumbledore had been in Azkaban.

“It is true,” Thorne said, “that Hogwarts would likely have been too overwhelming and she could have posed a threat. Albus—you know that St. Ailbe has a history of taking in werewolves, do you not? The convent’s wards have fortified spells that will be enough to restrain an Obscurial.”

Albus closed his eyes. He did not want to make this choice for his sister, and it felt uncomfortably like shoving her away. He would be trapped in a marriage he didn’t want—a marriage that paid for her life at a convent, a life which could either be comfortable or disastrous.

“Ask her,” he said. “I know that I am now her guardian, but it is her final decision.”

* * *

 

To Albus’ shock, Ariana said yes.

“Nuns?” Aberforth said, stunned. “Ariana, you want to live with nuns?”

“I want to try,” she said, parting the veil on her face. “I think it sounds—nice. They have gardens; I’ve always wanted to tend to a garden and grow funny plants that will sing to me and I can put into food. Maybe they can teach me things, not magic, of course, since that’s dangerous, but maybe astronomy and history. You’d be coming with me, Ab, after all…”

“Only for the summer,” Albus reminded her. “He still has to finish his schooling at Hogwarts.”

“I can drop out of school,” Aberforth said curtly. “I’m not letting her stay there by herself.”

It was this old argument again. Aberforth willing to forgo his education like a martyr, as if he wasn’t fifteen and his greatest skill was cleaning up goat excrement.

Thorne, apparently sensing the tension in the air, cut in. “You’ll be with her this coming summer, Aberforth. You can see if she’ll need you or not.”

Aberforth was still incensed. Albus pinched his nose, waiting for the eruption, and he wasn’t surprised when it came.

“You can’t discard her like this,” Aberforth said, turning on Albus, red curls unruly as he ran a hand through his hair. “You can’t discard _us_ like this.”

“I cannot control the terms of the marriage,” Albus said softly. “I wish I could. It seems like Ariana has made her choice, and I will try to visit you both whenever I can. I have not abandoned you.”

(He thought: I have. And he hated himself for feeling that ugly sensation of relief again.)

“Perhaps—” another _perhaps_ again, “—perhaps it will work out. I’ve read Moreau’s work and she’s unrivaled in the field. Her experiments with imbuing potions with magic are quite impressive.”

“I don’t want to hear you running your mouth about experiments or research nonsense,” Aberforth said. “This is our sister, who _I_ love and wish to protect. If anything goes wrong at this nunnery, it’s your fault. You’re our guardian.”

Abruptly, Ariana, who had been watching them with wide eyes, giggled.

Aberforth paused and said, “What…?”

“It’s known as a convent, Aberforth,” Ariana said. “Nunnery is another word for – er – ‘brothel.’”

The two brothers stared at her.

“I found Mum’s Shakespeare,” she said. “There’s only so much skimming of _your_ dry academic journals and _your_ goat care manuals one can do.”

* * *

 

It was only a month ago when Albus had assumed that his greatest concern would be aiming for all Os on his NEWTs and making travel plans with Elphias.

News of his pending marriage had spread to his year mates and Hogwarts faculty. They gave him pitying glances and whispered behind his back— _that genius Albus Dumbledore, betrothed to a foreign Seer._

How was it that Kendra Dumbledore intended for this to restore family name? Her eldest son trapped in an outdated practice of matched marriage by a binding contract?

Albus tried to find more about the Grindelwald family, but there was surprisingly little information. He had a nagging feeling that he was missing something essential, a pivotal ingredient in a complicated potions recipe, but all he could discover were spare sentences in between how Gellert Grindelwald’s mother, now deceased, had been an all-knowing Seer who had provided counsel. The content of the aforementioned counsel – prophecies? – was not described or explained.

For the first time, Albus found himself shying away from his schoolmates and staying beside his younger brother, under the guise of providing tutoring so Aberforth could pass his OWLs.

Aberforth was barely cooperative. He didn’t pay much to attention to Albus’ lessons, alternating between yawning out of boredom and simmering with his usual churlishness.

He was in a better mood after Ariana’s occasional letter arrived, and this evening, in their usual nook in the common room, Aberforth tossed a package to Albus.

“What’s this?” Albus said, blinking at the wrapped item.

“It’s from your fiancé.”

Albus opened the crinkled wrapping. There was a chocolate bar inside, sweet smelling and different. He took a cautious bite, and he tasted a hint of bitterness, and cherry, and—

“There is alcohol in this,” Albus said. He felt a strange feeling in his chest, and he smiled, remembering how he had mused to Elphias: _caramel or nuts?_

“It got through the Owlery wards?” Aberforth said, looking impressed despite himself.

Their Defense Professor Carrow was notorious for having reinforced the Owlery wards to prohibit illicit content from reaching Hogwarts grounds through the post. The ban covered Firewhiskey and other spirits, recreational potions, pornographic photos and novels, and smuggled Muggle contraptions that were intended to cure ‘hysteria’.

Albus took out his wand and casted a spell on the chocolate bar. There was, in fact, a layer of charms stuck to it, and it certainly seemed capable of bypassing Carrow’s wards.

He wandlessly summoned Ariana’s letter from Aberforth’s grasp. His brother let out a loud grumble that Albus ignored.

Ariana rambled about her day-to-day life with Mrs. Bagshot, complaining about the witch…she updated Aberforth about the welfare of his goats…she fussed over what to pack when she left for the convent…she discussed more of the Shakespeare she had been reading ( _‘I don’t understand what Juliet found appealing about Romeo’)_ …and finally, at the end:

_Apparently Batty’s been writing to her grandnephew all about you. He knows about your sweets obsession, and this is a wedding gift of sorts. He sent it to her to pass along to you; I decided to send it out with my usual letter._

_And, Albus, there’s something you should know – that boy was expelled from Durmstrang. I don’t know exactly what happened but I’ve been reading Batty’s mail. That boy’s father was trying to make it out that it was an experiment gone wrong—he was too smart for Durmstrang—but Merlin it makes me wonder what happened. I’m worried, Albus. I shall write later if I find out more but I don’t know what Mum was thinking._

Albus wondered if Gellert had been expelled for smuggling alcohol into Durmstrang, since it seemed he had the talent for that.

Aberforth, who had been reading over Albus’ shoulder, said, “Well! A delinquent as a husband.”

“Yes, Romeo was a murderer for killing Tybalt. But he did so to avenge the death of his friend Mercutio, and Juliet still loved him.”

“Come now, Albus,” Aberforth said. “What kind of wizard do you think this boy is, if he was expelled from _Durmstrang?_ Expelled despite his family background. This isn’t—this isn’t _good._ ”

And the worry in his tone was genuine.

“I don’t know, Aberforth,” Albus said, quietly.

“I can respect a man who can get past Carrow’s wards,” Aberforth said, snatching the bar from Albus and tucking it into his pocket. “But he might be like that wizard in that story Mum used to tell us. The warlock with the hairy heart.”

“He won’t cut out my heart,” Albus said, and he pondered over this boy, this wizard, who was expelled from a school notorious for Dark Arts, who gave his fiancé sweets laced with alcohol and anti-warding charms.

* * *

 

That night, Albus dreamed that he was sitting on the edge of a tower. It was dark, and he could hear the sound of the sea—no, he could see it in front of him. All around the tower. Dark cresting waves of black, spitting up foam and brine.

The night sky was clear, and the moon was a sliver of a crescent.

There was a beautiful boy with golden hair sitting next to Albus. He didn’t seem to see him and he was speaking—singing—a soft song underneath his breath in a language that Albus couldn’t understand. It was more like he was humming, the occasional word slipping out.

The boy looked at the stars. He held his hands out to them as if he could trap them between his palms and cast the filaments into the sea.

Then he stopped singing. He said in English, “I imagine it’s starting, isn’t it?” and looked directly at Albus.

“Excuse me,” Albus said politely, gesturing to the black waves below them, “this doesn’t seem quite safe.”

The boy laughed. “It’s not supposed to. You received my gift, didn’t you?”

“The chocolate bar,” Albus said, in recognition.

“Mm,” the boy said. “You should give me a gift in return. It’s only polite.” He leaned closer to Albus, those star-seeking fingers touching Albus’ cheek. “How about a kiss?”

Albus flushed.

“You are my husband.”

“Not yet,” he said, brushing aside Gellert’s hand. “This is—an odd dream.”

He took in the sight of the boy before him. He had seen a photograph of Gellert before, a black and white picture at Mrs. Bagshot’s house that he had previously thought little of. Compared to the photograph, the Gellert in this dream was older and vibrant, even in the night: that golden hair, those blue eyes that looked like the stormy sky reflecting a turbulent sea. The Dumbledore family had eyes that looked like spun glass, crystalline, watery, but the blue of Gellert’s was deeper and darker and madder.

Albus thought: _Oh._

Out loud, Albus said: “How exactly did you charm the chocolate? I examined it earlier and I’ve never seen anything like that when it comes to fooling Hogwarts’ sensor ward. The usual contraband method is to put items in a specialized trunk or box, hoping that the internal wards would be enough to hold off outside probing enchantments. I detected Transfiguration.”

Gellert smiled, pleased, a grin like a satisfied cat. “Indeed. Temporary transfiguration.”

“The alcoholic content was temporarily transfigured once it hit the wards!” Albus said. “I thought as much. It’s ingenious.”

Feeling quite bold, he added, “Is that why you were expelled? Owling crates of firewhiskey to Durmstrang?”

“No,” Gellert said. “I summoned a Dark creature from the depths of the ocean and fed my enemies to it.”

Albus blinked.

“I brewed an experimental recreational potion and my headmaster found me smoking it from an opium pipe during final exams. I urged other students to wear magenta robes instead of school uniforms. I formed an organization of pureblood fanatics who plotted to overthrow the government and we were found performing the Cruciatus on a half-blood first year. I drew a phallus on the Quidditch team’s Quaffle. I set loose Fiendfyre to burn the highest towers of the school and watched it rain green sparks while everyone screamed —

“—Pick one, Albus. Guess _._ ” Gellert practically _purred_ Albus’ name, making him shiver. It was a chill that didn’t come from the wind or the ocean at all.

Albus was caught halfway between amusement and fascination. There was something in the way that Gellert spoke and smiled. Albus could almost believe every single thing that he said, that this boy was capable of the most harmless acts of mischief or the most unforgiveable curses of the darkest magnitude.

Albus opened his mouth to speak, but that was the moment when the waves seemed to gain strength. They crashed harder against the tower, and the stars from above were blurring, and that was the moment when Albus woke up.

_…It was just a dream, wasn’t it…?_

* * *

 

Mercifully, Aberforth seemed to have scraped by and managed a decent performance on his OWLs. It was one of the few true surprises Albus experienced this year, along with their mother’s death and his pending arranged marriage.

“I Vanished a goat, transfigured a desk into a goat, brewed a dewormer potion that can rid goats of parasites, identified all the stars in Capricornus—“

“I see,” Albus said.

He was quite certain Aberforth was mocking him; Aberforth could be sharper than he let on, which Albus rarely acknowledged.

Albus said goodbye to Elphias and shook hands with his professors. Headmistress Mole beamed and told him he was a wonderful lad with a promising future, but the doubt in her eyes was evident.

He took off his Gryffindor robes with a heavy heart. He and Aberforth took the Floo in Hogsmeade to Godric’s Hollow, and they emerged from the fire to see Mrs. Bagshot and Ariana welcoming them with tea and biscuits laid out.

Home.

* * *

 

The marriage would take place at St. Jerome’s Church in Godric’s Hollow. Albus had assumed that it would be bigger and grander, befitting a family of Gellert’s stature, but Thorne vaguely repeated that the Grindelwald home was ‘unorthodox’ and that Gellert had insisted upon visiting the village.

Ariana vetoed every single wedding robe that Albus considered and came up with her own suggestions.

“I cannot believe I am related to you both,” Aberforth said flatly. “Ariana, I appreciate that you like my goats but he cannot wear goat fur boots to his marriage. Albus, you cannot wear overlapping stripes and dots of Gryffindor red and gold. And I’m sure the Muggle wedding gowns of Queen Victoria and Princess May are stunning, but it’s hardly appropriate to wear replicas for a _magical_ wedding.”

Aberforth could be such a misery, Albus thought, and he caught himself daydreaming about which robe colors would suit that boy he had dreamt of, blue eyes like a storm and gold hair like the sun.

But that was a _dream_ , he reminded himself.

Eventually, they settled on a pair of their father’s old robes, found in the back of an upstairs closet. It could easily be resized, and it saved the expense of purchasing something new, and so Albus slipped it on.

The robe was stark black. No shifting patterns, no swirling designs. There was a cravat at his throat, and it matched the red of Albus’ hair: somber, more like embers than a blazing fire.

On the day of the wedding, while Aberforth was busy putting bowties on his goats, Ariana ushered Albus aside and started twisting strands of his hair into a long braid.

“Do you remember,” she said, “when we used to go to fancy parties with Mum and Papa?”

“You remember?” Albus said, startled.

“I think so,” Ariana said. She was quiet, for a moment. “This is all happening because of me. They’re gone because of me. And I know you don’t want this. You want to be somewhere else, being clever and making important discoveries. You don’t want to be tied down by a stranger, or….”

_Or me. You have always wanted to be somewhere else._

Albus heard what she was implying and closed his eyes, simply feeling the sensation of her fingers threading through his hair.

Aberforth had always accused him of this, blunt as usual. Ariana had never said it until now.

“It’s all right,” Ariana said, in a whisper. “You’re still my brother. I won’t yell at you like Aberforth.”

Albus…did not know what to say about himself.

Instead, he said: “It’s not your fault, what happened to Mum and Father.” He turned his head to look at her, and he knew it was a common mantra she had grew up hearing but never believed: _it is not your fault._

She gave him a half-hearted shrug. “I hope—that your marriage won’t hold down your dreams. I’ll miss you.”

Albus said, with a light smile, “Me, too. I shall have to return the favor and braid your hair for _your_ wedding one day.”

“Albus,” Ariana said, and she was smiling back at him, and he saw tears in her eyes, “you’re sending me to live with _nuns_.”

* * *

 

Turnus Thorne was at the doorway when Albus emerged. He raised an eyebrow, and adjusted his spectacles with his wiry fingers.

“The last time I saw your father wear those robes,” Thorne said, “he was on trial at the Wizengamot, surrounded by dementors.”

Albus said, “Aberforth should attire his goats in black hoods.”

* * *

 

Albus officially met his husband for the first time at the small church in Godric’s Hollow.

The church was nearly empty. There were a handful of wizards and witches who lived in the village. Mrs. Bagshot waved at Albus cheerily, while Aberforth and Ariana wrangled the bowtie-clad goats.

There was a man in a scarlet robe looking at the goats with a distasteful expression. Lord Grindelwald, Albus assumed, and then he had his attentions utterly stolen away from him when he saw the boy at the altar.

…Flowers.

The first and only thought in Albus’ head.

Gellert Grindelwald was dressed in white, an embroidered line of flowers across the robes like a diagonal sash. The pattern was unmoving, for the most part, but a moment would pass and the petals would flutter from an invisible wind. He had a single red flower blossom twisted into his hair.

Golden hair, stormy eyes…it was _him._

* * *

 

Magical contracted marriages are not sealed with rings, nor kisses, or not even necessarily love. They are sealed with magic, both parties withdrawing their wands and repeating the words of the priest.

Albus was quite certain that he saw Gellert choke back a laugh when he used his full name for the vow: _I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore._

Albus gave Gellert a hint of a wink. Gellert winked back.

**Author's Note:**

> (No guarantees that I might finish this. I'm sorry. ;___:)


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